Aside from its many unique architectural features and cultural touchstones, New York City is also known as "The City that Never Sleeps." This moniker, shared by the cities of Tel Aviv, Buenos Aires, São Paulo, Barcelona, Mumbai, Belgrade, and Madrid, has always added to the mystique of a city in a constant cycle. This concept of a city which remains in constant motion could in fact be compared to the heartbeat in a human body, never stopping. Unfortunately, this unique trait had proven rather detrimental to MJ, who had since collapsed from exhaustion in an anonymous street sidewalk.
Steering clear of the busier avenues of city nightlife, MJ had cut through Battery Park before taking State Street to Bridge Street. From that point, she had walked on Broad Street, before turning on to Nassau and switching again onto Cedar Street. The need for continually changing streets was largely due to caution. MJ, the convict that she was, had opted to stay away from busy avenues with signs of drunken revelry, and late night partygoers, preferring the more subdued and empty business blocks. It was close to two o'clock in the morning, and even though MJ had no real knowledge of the time, she was aware that she was: Way past my bedtime.
What drove MJ on was nothing more than basic instinct. Here she was, bedraggled, exhausted, and somewhat starving, since her body was accustomed to sleeping at this time, yet she kept going. The symbiote may have pushed her into this bizarre odyssey, but it no longer propelled her. She was operating on a more basic and rudimentary level than anything else, blind to her motivations, reasoning, and comprehension.
What was I thinking? Listening to some other voice in my head, I must have been crazy…I don't even know where I'm going, and yet I'm still walking. I need sleep bad…
While the suit may have kept up a lively commentary before, when MJ was in the dock house, it had apparently decided to shut up, which she was somewhat pleased with. Man was it whiny, she thought, approaching Broadway. Of course it shuts up when I do what it wants me to do, as she felt a trace of bitterness creep into her thoughts. The fact was MJ had been questioning her reasoning behind following the creature's command, or, to put it more mildly, its suggestion. Initially, it appeared to have a sensible idea, but having walked for several miles, MJ no longer trusted her decision. It had taken over, and spirited her away from the Triskelion, and had persuaded her to continue and dodge S.H.I.E.L.D.'s clutches. The realization that she was becoming a pawn to the creature's whims filled her with disgust and anger, wishing she would have the temerity to turn around and await a pick-up from S.H.I.E.L.D. Or at least, I would if I weren't so tired.
As MJ's thoughts drifted, so too did her body, walking towards Broadway. It was late, so the likelihood that there would be droves of theatregoers was slim. If there was one good thing about being so tired, it was that she didn't have too much time to reflect on her recent past. In her cell at the Triskelion, she may have gotten plenty of rest and was well-fed, but she often awoke from horrid nightmares. Nightmares which might involve her getting tossed off the Queensboro Bridge, or seeing visions of Peter's deformed clone, among others. Sometimes, the dream wrapped them all up into one, leaving her shrieking as she woke up. Much of this MJ had since dismissed, since Peter had paid a visit to her which had allowed her to gain new perspective. Regrettably, this new direction in her life largely eliminated that refreshing perspective and the hope it brought.
Peter…
I'm sorry. I let you down.
That was it for her. She couldn't go on any longer. Those were her last thoughts, as she slouched down onto the pavement, shuffling some trash around her for camouflage and insulation before she drifted off to a black, deep, and fortunately, peaceful sleep.
If MJ fell asleep in a relatively peaceful manner, her waking was anything but.
Like an oversized alarm clock, several noisy beeps, sounding quite similar to a vehicle backing up, startled her awake, causing her to push as far away from the intrusive noise as possible. As a matter of fact, it was a vehicle, or to be more specific, a garbage truck. Unlike MJ, the driver was ambivalent to her presence. His partner, who had dismounted however, was rather surprised by her sudden appearance.
"Are you—?"
MJ was gone before the man could finish his sentence.
Ah! My neck! MJ rather abruptly felt upon turning the corner. Clutching the back of her neck, she found a sharp pain, as though she had twisted a muscle. Great, she thought, just what I need. On top of everything else, I sleep wrong and hurt myself. Oh, and I'm hungry too...Hooray for me…
Now who's whiny?
Oh great, now you're back…
Calm yourself. We've reached our first objective.
We? Who are you kidding, MJ thought irritably, massaging her neck as her eyes flicked around to see what it was the creature was talking about.
Huh.
Evidently, she had walked further than she had thought. No wonder I was so exhausted, as she pondered the Capital One bank in front of her. Judging by the street signs around her, she was at Bowery Street, far from her initial assumptions of staying in Broadway. Did I really walk that far? She looked around. It was early morning, and the sun beginning to shine some light on the street.
We should get inside.
Did I—Was I sleepwalking?
It's getting bright outside. It is imperative we retreat indoors, in case S.H.I.E.L.D. sees us.
You're paranoid.
Get inside.
Once again, MJ grudgingly followed the creature's commands, something which was becoming somewhat easier, much to her frustration.
The creature was making progress in re-wiring her mind.
As MJ stepped inside, she suddenly felt self-conscious. She was relatively unkempt, and wearing a prison uniform. What more, there were several security cameras, seven, if she was counting right.
Great idea bringing me in here. Now it'll be much easier for S.H.I.E.L.D. to find me.
The creature ignored her. Go to a teller. Ask for a safe-deposit box. Request number 4203.
What?
Just do it, the symbiote replied, prodding her on.
Looking around, she found the place to be relatively empty. According to the wall clock, it was close to six o'clock in the morning, something which, in a normal world, would result in her waking up in her bedroom and getting ready for school. The realization of this gulf between her previous and more ordinary life and this one was getting wider, and it took a fair amount of effort for MJ to choke back the emotion that was gathering in her throat. She was inherently miserable, but breaking down in this bank would do no good. Even her cell in one of the Triskelion's sub-basements was beginning to look good.
Why'd I have to leave…?
Get the safety-deposit box.
Shut up.
Filled with an assorted mixture of dread, nausea, and fear, MJ approached one of the tellers. The name "Brenda" was stamped on the metal tile near her window, and MJ approached with the utmost caution, worried that she'd be found out.
"Um…E—"
MJ stopped. Her voice was still thick with emotion, close to breaking. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried again.
"Excuse me?"
Brenda, who was typing away at her counter console, missed MJ's false start, but managed to hear her the second time. Turning to face her, MJ watched as Brenda's face turned from morning drowsiness to one of surprise.
Oh man, MJ thought, as she began to sweat. She knows who I am, she's going to call the police, she's—
"Oh, uh—good morning! Is there something I can help you with?" Brenda's initial surprise at her customer's youthfulness had quickly reverted to pleasant blandness, with a polite smile thrown in for good measure.
While MJ initially assumed she would freeze again, forgetting the number the creature had instructed her to give to the teller; she was surprised to repeat it perfectly.
"Uh, yes. I have a safe-deposit box here. The number's four-two-zero-three."
Brenda immediately swiveled her gaze from MJ to the computer in front of her. After a few seconds of inputting the information, she looked back at MJ.
"Could I have your name for this box, please?"
This time MJ froze.
"Uh…"
Great.
The creature wasted no time. Your name is Tracy Ruby.
"Tracy Ruby."
What kind of name is that?
Brenda raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, choosing to instead turn her attention back to her screen. What happened next caused MJ's heart to skip a beat, if only for a moment. Brenda's eyes widened and her eyebrows rose in surprise. At first, MJ thought her reaction meant that she realized she was some sort of truant, about to call security, or the police, or S.H.I.E.L.D. However, none of those concerns were realized. Instead, all Brenda did was turn back to MJ.
"Alright, Miss Ruby, if you'll just follow me, I'll show you to a room where you can inspect the contents of your box."
Inside the room was a bland and cracked desk, one chair, and a wastepaper basket. MJ was instructed to sit down, and waited while Brenda retrieved the box. Overall, MJ was still feeling very uneasy about this whole thing. It had been too easy, it was a trap, there was nothing inside of the box, it was useless, it was—
Calm yourself.
MJ closed her eyes and took another deep breath. She was running on adrenaline alone here. She hadn't eaten anything in over four hours, and was wondering how much longer she'd be able to go on. With no money, and no other—
"Here we are, Miss Ruby. You are welcome to stay in this room for 20 minutes in order to inspect the contents of your box. After that, I will have to take the box back to the vault. You are welcome to place anything into or remove anything from the box. If you have questions, I'll be outside."
After unlocking the box with a key, Brenda gently closed the door, leaving MJ alone. Licking her lips and looking around to see if there were any cameras or people nearby, MJ uneasily opened the box.
The lid was cool to her touch, and when she opened it up, she found herself gasping in surprise. The first thing she noticed was a wallet, with what appeared to be a very costly and rugged wristwatch. Both of these items appeared to be of high-quality, and she couldn't help but marvel at how much they must've cost. Her thoughts soon turned elsewhere, however, after removing the wallet to find a small handgun, coupled with a magazine.
A gun? Oh man…what is this doing in here? How did you know about this box? Did you put this in here?
We put it in there. Before the Urich job. Before Redfern. As a safety precaution. The other materials would have been moved from your bedroom to this box if you hadn't disrupted the plan.
Disrupted? Plan? What are you talking about?
You don't remember? It was the day you broke our connection, when drastic measures had to be taken to preserve the bond. The day S.H.I.E.L.D.—
I hate this. I'm-I'm not a murderer. What happened earlier…that was an accident. I can't do this. I don't want this.
Then don't take the gun. But the remaining contents should be taken. They are imperative for our survival.
Without wanting to touch the weapon, MJ looked at the other remaining contents, where she promptly noticed one of the eight stacks of currency. Picking one up, she was amazed to find a few twenties, multiple fifties, and at least several hundred-dollar bills.
Wow…this is more money than I've ever seen in my whole life…This-this could've paid for college…where did all of this come from…?
The elements of this box were received by you from a dead-drop in Bryant Park. Now get all of the money into the wallet. We need new attire.
We're going shopping?
Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. - After a few hours of rest, Becky Rodgers was back in the office, sorting the relevant information Ryder would need for her morning briefing. Or rather, the late morning briefing, compared to the one o'clock in the morning directive her boss had issued to her. Walking through the halls, she noticed that at least a few of her co-workers were equally dead-eyed as she was earlier. Ryder drove them hard, at least harder than she had in the past.
This was something Rodgers was finding rather curious, and was beginning to mull it over more and more frequently. While it's true Ryder was a demanding boss, it wasn't like her to be this driven. True, they'd worked some late nights, but she often was willing to give her employees a break the next day, letting the late shift come in later than usual while the morning shift picked up the slack. Now, however, some sort of possession had come over Ryder. While Rodgers hadn't noticed it last night, she was beginning to reflect on what Ryder had been doing and saying. She was writing down information on a notepad, something she had never done before. Leaving a paper trail, even if you weren't working in the field was exceptionally risky. It was just a habit you picked up if you worked long enough in the Clandestine Service of the CIA, and Ryder had been in that division for quite some time. Why was she writing notes down now? Her veiled threat to Rodgers had also come as a surprise. Ordinarily, she and Rodgers had always gotten along respectfully and, when the occasion called for it, jovially. But her alarming smile suggested a ferocity Rodgers had never seen in her boss before. While it may have made sense for Ryder to be angry at her for exceeding her authority, there seemed to be something else in her reply, something Rodgers couldn't quite put her finger on.
Regardless of what she thought her boss had gone through at Langley, Rodgers didn't have time to focus on it. She had to focus on the briefing. As befitting the traditional formal custom between the two, Rodgers approached her boss's door and knocked.
"Come in, Becky."
Hoping Ryder would be in a better mood, Rodgers opened the door with a pleasant smile. "Morning!"
"So what do we have?"
No time for pleasantries, apparently, Rodgers thought.
"Well, if you'll just take a look at these files, you'll see that we've more or less managed to narrow the list down to potential locations where Redfern might go with his information."
Rodgers took a seat across from Ryder's desk, spreading out a series of documents from a briefing folder. "Already, we've received updates from two of our assets in the fields. Riot and Lasher have either just landed, or were about to, and the various surveillance and grab teams are ready to go."
Ryder never made eye contact with Becky, choosing to instead examine the print-outs and other papers. "Right. So what locations might Redfern head to?"
"Well, based on analysis, it could be any number of places. Assuming he remains in New York City, he could go anywhere from the New Yorker offices in Times Square, to the Times on 8th Avenue, to the Wall St. Journal. He may even try to go back to the Bugle.
Ryder said nothing immediately, continuing to mull over the documents laid out on her desk. Eventually, she looked up at Rodgers.
"So what you're telling me is that we still don't know for sure where he's going to appear?"
"Well," Rodgers responded uneasily, shifting in her seat, "not exactly. I mean, like you said, New York City's a big place, with plenty of varied media outlets. It's not exactly easy to predict, much less narrow down where he might appear next. We don't even know if he would show up at a media outlet."
While Rodgers was ambivalent, Ryder was crisp and focused. "Well it's unlikely he'd be going to any federal office. What he'd be bringing with him would be very incriminating, and I doubt S.H.I.E.L.D. or the FBI or anyone else would be willing to grant him complete immunity if he showed up with evidence of illegal genetic experimentation. Local's uninterested and not equipped for this sort of thing, so yes, I'd imagine he'd go to a media outlet."
Rodgers was impressed by her boss's reasoning, and was frankly feeling a bit like an idiot for not putting the pieces together sooner. "Right. Well, if you were to make that assumption, than I guess you can ignore most of the data on the various law enforcement offices and focus on the media centers. If you think of his previous behavior, it looks as though he'd ignore web-based outlets and head directly for the ones which might make more of a splash."
"So that would be…newspapers, magazines, or television?"
"Right. And seeing how he can't leave New York, and seeing how we've seized his remaining monetary assets, I imagine he'd go for something which could be transmitted to the public immediately."
"Which would remove magazine publications from the equation…"
"…And newspapers, probably, although seeing how they have websites now too, I'd rather not completely eliminate them from the roster…"
Ryder nodded. "Makes sense," she murmured, looking back at the document detailing all of the likely places Redfern might go with his precious information. Frowning, she began to notice something appeared to be missing."
"What do we have on back doors?"
"Hmm?"
"Back doors. What do we have in case Redfern, say, doesn't go into any of these buildings, and instead conveys the information electronically?"
"Ah…I understand. We've got NSA actually working on that. They'll intercept any e-mails, phone calls, or anything else with a Cryptkeeper code-word embedded in it. If it has our names, or the names of the assets, or his name, then they'll intercept it, block it from reaching its original destination, and track down the location the message originated from."
Ryder nodded. "Sounds good," she replied satisfactorily, handing the contents of the folder back to Rodgers. "I want the assets we have on the ground to be aware of Redfern's appearance, and that they have the green light if they find him."
Rodgers eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Wait, you want the assets to get first crack at Redfern? Wouldn't it be easier if—?"
Ryder cut her off. "No. Last time we relied on the Grab Teams, we lost Redfern, and simply wounded a journalist. The Grab Teams and Surveillance Teams are merely there to box Redfern in when we find him. The assets will complete the job. I want this loose end tied up very tightly. Don't you remember me saying that last night?"
"Oh, well, yes, I guess I kind of forgot," Rodgers replied sheepishly, realizing that Ryder was probably right. She had simply forgotten because she had been exhausted.
"Well, just make sure it doesn't happen again. Now, relay that information onto the rest of the staff. I'll join you shortly."
New York City, New York- While Rodgers was carrying out her boss's orders, MJ had been getting her strength back. Armed with around five-thousand, maybe six-thousand dollars, by her rough estimation, MJ had eaten a breakfast at the McDonald's on Canal Street before taking a nap. She had then taken a cab to the Macy's on Fulton Street. The symbiote naturally protested over MJ taking a cab and choosing to shop at a more high-end store instead of a smaller and more anonymous thrift store, but MJ still retained a portion of free will, and was not entirely tethered to the creature's decision-making process. She was not about to walk several hundred feet to a McDonald's and then several hundred more feet to try and find a thrift store, if she could even find any near her current location. And she was definitely not going to continue on until she had caught some more sleep.
If I'm going to do what you say, I'd rather do it my own way. It's bad enough you're still in me without having to listen to you all the time.
She had taken her time with her junk-food meal, enjoying every last bite. The creature might have preferred MJ only purchase something quickly and then leave the premises, yet she felt she deserved it, especially after trekking out this whole way. After her lengthy nap, which stretched on for a few hours, MJ left the McDonald's and entered a cab.
It was unwise of you to sleep in there.
Having just woken up again, MJ was in no mood to argue.
Sorry. Not interested.
Sleeping leaves us vulnerable. It should only be done in a private, enclosed setting. Not somewhere public.
While the creature was scolding MJ, it actually welcomed her moment of weakness. True, the creature may have made valid points, but every time MJ became dormant, it provided a new opportunity to delve even further into her psyche, to try and re-establish its previous state of perfect symbiosis, both in body and mind. Her snide remarks in the bank and her steadfast refusal to remain furtive needed to be corrected, and the creature was currently trying to flex its influence over the host.
You still haven't said where I should going after this. Do you even know what I'm supposed to be looking for?
We'll find him soon enough.
The cryptic reply was the last thing MJ was interested in hearing. Him? Who's 'him?' All this time you've told me exactly what to do, and now you decide to sound all mysterious?
Patience.
You said this guy can help us. He could help me. You better not be lying…
I don't lie about our creator. Carl Redfern is the best man to help us. Not the fools in S.H.I.E.L.D. They are ignorant of our capabilities. Redfern understands us, gave us the power necessary to—
MJ cut off the creature's thoughts. I get it. He's one hell of a guy. I just hope you can find him...
We. Not you.
Whatever.
The cab stopped at the corner. Using her leftover change from breakfast, MJ paid the driver before heading to the store.
Upon entering the small and simple store, MJ was surprised by how busy it seemed. While not as crowded as on holidays, it still seemed to be filled with people.
Doesn't anyone have to work in the morning?
MJ, as she was prone to do in the past with Liz, browsed through the various aisles of clothing, seeking something which…which…
Huh, she thought, feeling an odd thought floating up out of her consciousness, why do I feel like grabbing some darker colored clothing? Did you have anything to do with this?
The symbiote remained silent, not venturing a reply.
MJ shook the feeling off. Maybe it was just one of those—what do you call them—survival instincts? That must've been it. Makes more sense to wear darker colored clothing, anyways. Harder to spot. Anonymous. Her "other" couldn't be messing with her, right?
MJ certainly hoped not, suppressing a shudder at the mere thought of the parasite rearranging her brain, recalling her earlier predictions. She desperately hoped they weren't coming true.
A few moments later, and MJ was set, having purchased the clothing, and then rather surreptitiously, borrowing one of the dressing rooms to lose the prison wear in favor of her new attire. Looking at herself, she was briefly taken aback by her appearance. Gone were the flip flops, the Capri pants. Gone were the bangles and bracelets, the hairclips sprinkled liberally throughout her hair! What MJ saw through the mirror was a grim-looking figure, with her greasy hair hanging low around her head. She wore dark-colored jeans, a blank dark blue t-shirt, and an inky black jacket, lightweight with plenty of pockets. Instead of her traditional athletic sneakers she wore for gym, or her sandals she wore for everything else, she had instead purchased dull utilitarian work boots, ones which were as dark as the rest of her appearance. And her current state-of-mind too.
Very nice, the symbiote seemingly purred. Now we shall blend in easily. All that is left to do is dye your hair.
That caught MJ's attention.
What?
Your hair is too vivid and noticeable. It must be changed to achieve total anonymity.
You can't be serious.
You know it's for the best, the symbiote replied in a soothing manner, attempting the same trick it had accomplished in the dock house. If we are to find Redfern, we must ensure that nobody detects us. We no longer resemble a high school child. Changing your hair will allow for more mobility, a new identity.
No.
Did you just refuse a direct command?
You're not in charge of me. I'll—
We are COOPERATING. There is no—
No what? Bossing me around? Like a teacher? A parent? No. You are trying to control me, and you've been controlling me. And I may have done everything you've told me to do, but this—dyeing my hair—I can't do it. I won't. It's too much.
You WILL obey.
MJ felt another surge of dopamine, much like the when she was in the dock house. This time, however, she was not as exhausted, not easily swayed.
Why? You've already taken everything else that I loved and I cared about. You've taken my family away from me, my house, my friends, my—even my personality doesn't feel the same. You've taken everything else away from me, and now you want to take my identity too? No, I'm not going to let you take the one last part of me away. Forget it.
The creature was beginning to grow irritated. Its persuasion techniques and chemical releases were not working. It would have to up the ante.
We will cooperate. Whether you willingly go along, or if I need to override your motor functions, we will cooperate.
Go ahead. Try it. But I'm not going to let you manipulate me into removing my last bit of dignity.
There was a brief interlude between this mental argument. It lasted for several minutes.
Fine. Your hair won't be dyed. We'll function without any more cosmetic modifications.
The creature's tone was snippy and angry. MJ allowed herself a small smile.
That's what I thought. Now where is this Redfern you keep bringing up?
After MJ checked herself for price tags, she then stuffed her prison jumpsuit and matching slip-ons into the Macy's bag and left the store, pleased with her victory, however small it may have seemed.
Now she would seek out this "Redfern."
As MJ left the department store, Carl Redfern, approximately six or so blocks over, was rather manically attempting to re-send several video files from an e-mail he had just created in the Brooklyn Heights Library. For some reason, his personal e-mail didn't work. He couldn't access it. Initially concerned, he soon realized that of course it made sense that he wouldn't be able to access his e-mail. The people who were after him had probably shut it down on purpose. This snafu didn't concern Redfern too much. It would be a piece of cake to create a new account, Google the e-mail addresses of several producers of nightly news broadcasts, and send out the information. At least that was how he had envisioned it. But after he had set up a new Yahoo e-mail account and send off the video files from his flash-drive, he found that an error message continually popped up. The e-mail wouldn't go through, no matter how many times he hit "Refresh."
Redfern first thought that this was simply a computer error. Therefore, he had rebooted the computer, asked the librarian again for a guest account so he could use the computer once more, and tried to re-send the e-mail. The error message popped up again. He tried switching to a computer to his left, before moving again to the one on his right. The error message continued to appear.
ERROR: This message cannot be delivered as sent.
Now he was beginning to sweat. Sending these files was his last chance for redemption, his last opportunity to finesse his way out of this hole he had dug himself into. He was out of money, and couldn't pay the rent for the Holiday Inn room anymore, much less access his bank account. He was desperate. And now the e-mails couldn't get sent? This was no coincidence. It couldn't be. They had found him, one way or another, and he was screwed. The mouse in the mousetrap. Nowhere else to go. Looking around, he noticed a few of the other patrons were having similar problems with their computers. The librarians were beginning to get swamped.
Guess I'll head to the next—
Oh shit.
Redfern first noticed them as he was standing up and getting ready to go. Several bulky guys were strolling into the building, fanning out, swiveling their heads from side to side. They were searching for someone. This might have made plenty of people nervous, given their formidable appearances, but what caused Redfern's blood to run cold was the appearance of a man whom Redfern recognized, someone he hadn't seen in quite a while.
Riot…
Well that did it for Redfern. No sooner did he spot the first of his "creations," before he broke out into an open sprint, desperate to put as much distance between him and killer pursuing him. Naturally, rational thinking was not in his current frame of mind, which is why Redfern bounded up a flight of stairs, narrowly dodging several people coming down.
"Excuse me, you can't—"
Redfern had already passed them by the time the employee finished her sentence, with Trevor Cole starting his ascent.
What the HELL, Redfern thought as he pushed open the door to the second floor. What were you thinking, going up to the second floor? Damndamndamndamn DAMN!
Redfern heard footsteps behind him quickly approaching the door. They were gaining.
Spinning around, Redfern tried to cobble together a plan, some way to get out of the building as fast as possible. Nothing special came to mind. He tried a few of the doors near the stairwell. They were locked.
Shit.
Much like the sensation one feels when plunging downward in an elevator, Redfern felt something similar, a feeling of his stomach rising as the noose tightened, the executioner's axe swinging downward.
Why are they trying to kill me, anyways? Isn't that illegal…?
Suddenly, like a life preserver being thrown down, he spotted a bathroom door. His moment of salvation. Running surprisingly fast, Redfern bolted through the door. Sprinting towards the first stall he could, Redfern swung the door open wide before bringing it back. The door was a mere two, maybe one inch away from the locking mechanism.
Almost…there…
Redfern was drenched in sweat, his days-old dress shirt practically transparent. One more second, and he'd be safe. He'd have to be.
The door stopped.
Redfern glanced up quickly to notice a gloved hand grasped firmly around the top of the stall door. Without any more warning, the door was wrenched wide open again and there Cole stood. Imposing. Cold. Dispassionate.
His executioner.
Redfern did not know what he would have done if he could have foreseen this scenario. Maybe he thought he would have fought back. Or try to escape. He probably would have never thought that he would remain frozen in place, gazing in horror upon this man, this soulless killer he had helped create.
Cole gave no quarter, charging into the stall, ramming Redfern up against a wall before pulling out a switchblade, long and lethal.
The knife plunged into Redfern's chest, right in the heart; the assassin's other hand muffling his possible shouts for help.
As he was lowered onto the floor, the knife removed from his body, Redfern was surprised by how quiet it was. There was no noise, and he had never made a sound, even before getting stabbed. Instead, it just felt…peaceful. Nothing more to worry about. He didn't even notice Cole going through his pockets, grabbing his wallet and flash drive.
Redfern drifted off.
Blackness.
Nothing.